Afterimage
by Miharu is Harukas Love Child 2
Summary: It was as if Light never existed and she was suddenly her own person again…anyone else might say it was freeing, but she knew better. Post-Canon!Misa


Afterimage

_**Warning**_: I struggled very hard deciding the brief dialogue for this piece and decided English didn't seem appropriate. I apologize if that is too annoying, but I promise translations aren't necessary for the effect I wanted…

**A/N**: _This was originally posted on my old account, Miharu is Haruka's Love Child_

Disclaimer: DN no es mio.

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The blonde descended into the traffic, weaving her way across the sea of people moving in and through the walk zone, careful not to scuff her pristine Mary Jane's as she was engulfed in the living pulsing throng of the Scramble. She hopped a small trolley line, swiping her pass along the ticket scanner before she settled herself in a seat near the middle aisle. Two stops away she relieved herself from the bus, barely noticing the driver dipping his blue cap to her, flashing the trade-mark paw of Hachiko, Shibuya's mascot and tourist attraction. When she was young and naive, she noticed these things. These days, she only saw shadows and nondescript blurs.

_Lies_. All of it.

Her legs wouldn't have taken her to the gaudy department store's flashing sign if she hadn't been on autopilot. Bodies drifted in and out all around her. She let her feet sway into the mass of 109. The vendors smiled as she passed; her name and face were well known in the fashion war zone, but today she wasn't interested in their wares. She stepped off the escalator almost by whim.

Floor nine: Shoes and Hair

"Ohayo gozaimasu Amane Misa-san! Irasshaimase." The proprietor bowed the greeting to her at the salon's entrance.

"Ohayo gozaimasu," replied the blonde woman, seating herself in a chair and pulling up a magazine from the coffee table.

"O-genki desu ka?"

_How was she?_ It wasn't a question she allowed herself to process. If she thought too deeply, then the pain would consume her. Misa simply slipped on her rose-colored glasses and smiled at the hairdresser. She was young and beautiful and nothing else in the world mattered.

She picked a style and color from the magazine and let the game begin. New style, new color, new personality. It was the game played by every young woman and one that Misa Misa dominated with fierce determination.

Ms. Amane let her eyelids relax as the hairdresser massaged her scalp. Thoughts drifted to the years before she was discovered…before modeling provided ample enough to quench her every material need. Fashion was everything, and styles changed from month to month. No normal teenager had the income to keep a closet up to date with fashion's perpetual evolution. She, like hundreds of others, had solicited herself to the businessmen as a sort of modern day courtesan.

"Awaaa." She yawned as cutely as she could, stretching her arms at just the right angle, as etiquette demanded. One blink and she took in her modified appearance.

"Waai arigato!" she squeaked striking a loli pose, hugging the air around herself.

"Do itashimashite," bowed the stylist.

She pivoted towards the cashier and asked for her bill. She simply handed him 15,000 yen and didn't bat an eyelash for the change.

Back in the street, she re-emerged into the venues before stopping at a colorful crepe shop for a bite of strawberries and cream. She liked the way her newly baptized chestnut tresses bounced across her shoulders in the countertop reflection. More than a few passersby doubled their glances at the cascading locks and Misa couldn't be further pleased with the effect. After Near's little kidnapping stunt the previous year, NHK had been reluctant to rehire her and she'd struggled to claw her name back to its proper prestige. In the end, she was too damn emerged in the business of appearance to lose the game where it mattered most—the streets.

People, however, didn't really interest her. Real people were _never_ particularly interesting; if they were, then there wouldn't be such a market in metaphoric masks and pseudo-identities. Honesty simply wasn't as profitable.

It wasn't particularly pleasant either.

Rush hour greeted her as she slipped some yen into a ticket station for the sleek little boarding pass back to Akebanebashi District. The machines ate it and spit the paper out with a small punch to allow her through the revolving gate. Once she boarded the subway, it was impossible to keep her thoughts from drifting in dark directions. Misa wrapped a few of her gloved fingers around the triangle of a hanging strap reserved for standing passengers and braced herself for the ride and the onslaught of unpleasant thoughts to come…

…It had been Matsuda who finally broke under her incessant questioning. The entire NPA had refused to disclose any information about her fiancée and what happened that afternoon in the Yellow Box.

But that part of her life was gone now. Light was dead and Kira was gone. Near had burned the Death Notes, along with any evidence of Light's crimes. Even the supposed evidence that she had once aided him in killing hundreds of criminals had simply vanished. Gone like last year's fashion trends.

It was as if Light never existed and she was suddenly her own person again…anyone else might say it was freeing, but she knew better.

Of all the masks Misa wore, happiness was the one she hated most.

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Notes: I wrote this based on my experience when I went to Japan a few years ago.

Ummn…did I 'get' Misa or did I fail? I've never had much interest in writing about her tbh…so I have no idea how OOC this may have come across as…

Oh and I sooo don't agree with any of the opinions expressed in this piece…par usual they just seemed to fit the story.

Review please?


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